


Of Boredom And Beer

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drunk Dean Winchester, Fluff, Fluff in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Sam Winchester is So Done, Silly Dean Winchester, Soft Dean Winchester, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, domestic bunker fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 08:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: Why so serious?"You're extremely inebriated, Dean."Did he say that aloud? Dean reaches for the bottle again."Dean."





	Of Boredom And Beer

_ What’s he so beautiful for, seriously. _

Dean glares weakly from where he’s slouched in a seat directly next to Castiel. Eyeing the positively _ nonexistent _ space between their chairs, Dean can’t find it in himself to protest for personal space.

When had he even stopped doing that, anyway? He can’t remember. And right now, the greater part of Dean is reveling in the proximity.

_ Wait, no. Bad Dean. None of that. Bad. _

Shaking his head with a quiet scoff, Dean drains the bottle in his hand. He might be just a _ liiittle _ bit drunk.

_ No. Wrong. Dean Winchester does _ not _ get drunk. Who says I’m drunk? _

His thumb slips off the sealed cap of a new bottle. Dean scowls, tries again. Fails. He glances up — they had better not be laughing at him — but both Sam and Castiel are absorbed in their books. They probably wouldn’t notice anything happening unless it literally hit them in the face. Rolling his eyes, Dean returns to mission: Open The Stupid Beer Bottle. And promptly fails again.

_ Son of a bitch. _

Ridiculously serene in contrast to Dean’s silent beer bottle frustration, Castiel gently turns the page of his book. Instantly, Dean’s attention is captured.

_ Wow. _

Castiel rests his hand on the table next to his book, fingers absently curling loosely toward his palm.

_ I bet those fingers would look good wrapped around— Whoaaa there. Let’s have some beer and— Oh! Cas can help, that’s a good. Good idea. _

Shoving the bottle right under Castiel’s nose, Dean waves it from side to side insistently. “Cas,” he doesn’t whine, because that’s what babies do and Dean Winchester absolutely does _ not —_ under any circumstance — whine.

“You shouldn’t drink any more, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice the usual gritty gravel, low and rough and deep. It’s a voice that sinks immeasurable power in every word, all encompassing and magnificent as thunder. A voice you wouldn’t think twice to obey.

_ Mm. So good; makes me feel things. Need more of it. Like beer. “Shouldn’t drink any more,” blah blah blah. I’m not a child, you ain’t the boss of me. _

His — truthfully? Waning — desire for more alcohol renewed by the idea of sweet defiance, Dean bites down on the bottle cap. And yanks it straight off with a resounding _ pop. _

_ That’s more like it. _

“Dean.”

A hand, strong and warm, closes around Dean’s wrist. Dean nearly drops the bottle in his surprise, looking up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

_ Blue… So pretty... _

Castiel removes the bottle from Dean’s grasp; Dean doesn’t make any efforts to help or resist.

“That’s enough for today.” Castiel’s tone is a gentle reprimand.

Dean’s lost in blue ocean eyes.

_ Why so serious? _

“You’re extremely inebriated, Dean.”

Did he say that aloud? Dean reaches for the bottle again.

_ “Dean,” _ Castiel growls.

_ Oh— Okay, that’s— Better listen. _

Raising both his hands up next to his head, palms out like he’s being arrested, Dean watches as Castiel picks up the bottle and tips it back. He’s mesmerized by the way Castiel’s throat works to swallow one mouthful of beer after another; the spectacle is over far too soon, to Dean’s great dismay. Having drained a full beer in mere seconds, Castiel sets the empty bottle back on the table, his expression one of faintly smug satisfaction in the face of Dean’s slack jawed astonishment.

_ I— Okay— That— That was hot—_

Castiel turns his attention back to the book in front of him, tongue darting out to swipe at his bottom lip, chasing after a lingering drop of beer. Normally, Dean would be outraged that someone besides himself had drained the very last beer in the bunker without replenishing the stash, but this time, he really couldn’t care any less. He’s far too busy staring holes into the side of Castiel’s head.

_ Look at that jaw… I want to touch his face—_

Before Dean even registers moving, his hand is on Castiel’s shoulder, fingers curling into the familiar trench coat. Castiel doesn’t react, not even when the hand slides daringly across smooth fabric to caress the soft tanned skin of his neck, both Dean’s pinky and ring finger slipping under the collar of Castiel’s perpetually white dress shirt.

Dean’s thumb hesitantly explores the underside of Castiel’s jaw, his pulse beating strong and calm under Dean’s fingers. Castiel continues to read, perfectly focused on words printed with fading ink on old pages, and Dean grows bolder. His hand rises to Castiel’s cheek, fingers tucked neatly behind Castiel’s ear, light stubble tickling his palm.

With Castiel’s — nearing deliberate — lack of attention, Dean traces the gentle curve of his cheekbone, hypnotized by the sensation. Castiel is fully unbothered by what Dean is doing but when the next page is turned, Dean feels a faint weight against his hand like Castiel’s subtly leaning into his touch.

That’s as good as permission, so Dean happily continues. He traces nonsensical swirling patterns on Castiel’s cheek, lightly strokes the delicate skin behind Castiel’s ear.

It’s all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns — the two of them in their own private bubble of peace and joy — until Dean’s finger slips.

The pad of Dean’s finger drags firmly over the soft plush swell of Castiel’s lips and just like that, Castiel abandons all of his indifference. Startled by the intensity burning in vivid sapphire eyes, Dean’s hand falls to clutch at Castiel’s shoulder.

Leaning _ far _ into Dean’s space, Castiel cradles Dean’s face with one hand. Dean doesn’t realize that his mouth is open until Castiel’s lips are pressed to his own. He gasps his surprise into Castiel’s mouth, eyes instinctively falling shut.

“Really,” Sam’s voice sighs from a few paces away.

Castiel doesn’t release Dean until after a solid ten seconds. Dean’s only slightly ashamed to admit he had chased after Castiel’s lips as they were retreating.

Sam is walking back to his seat across from them — when had he left, anyway? — with his hands occupied by an absolutely enormous stack of thick old lore books. Blinking tiredly, he sets them in the center of the table and sits down, rubbing at his eyes. “I _ so _ did not need to see that.”

“My apologies,” Castiel murmurs, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He’s smirking as he returns to his book.

Dean sits in stunned silence for the next ten minutes with burning cheeks, just barely aware of the sound of pages turning around him and Sam’s — exactly on the wrong side of discreet — glances of confusion.

Never before has Dean had such an intense urge to thank a pizza delivery man.


End file.
